WC Fic: Half-Pint Neal
Author's Note: No real spoilers or warnings--this was inspired by the fever-fic fest on the whitecollarhc comm--it is an implausible Neal is deaged or little-ified fic, who inexplicably ends up in Peter and Elizabeth's care. Written for my own prompt, because writing it out gave me an odd bunny, although I am thrilled others are writing this too (I am uncomfortable writing kids, just cuz I'm not sure I write them properly, so am really happy others are doing this because I am craving de-aged fic) found here. A cursed object is definitely involved, something old and ancient and stolen from an Egyptian tomb. This is being used, hence, for the "cursed" square on my h/c bingo card. Rated G, at least at this point.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or this universe. I am writing this for my own self-indulgent fun, and because, like Neal, I clearly covet other people's things, even if they will never be my own.
A little thanks to lauracollared, who gave me the nudge to fix the little errors that were bugging me--except for the timeline, which you just have to go with.
Comments, positive or negative, are treasured. Thanks for reading.
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It had been almost six months ago that Neal had been--reduced? Made young? De-aged? Youthified? Mozzie kept coming up with new words, but the fact remained--Neal had been shrunk down to a pint-sized, four year old version of himself. With no signs or way to make him his own annoying, charismatic, adult self again. Neal himself was no help--he had no memory or knowledge that his four year old self did not possess. He’d spent the first week in Peter’s guest room (crying heartbreakingly for his mommy, for the most part), because Peter couldn’t exactly saddle June with--well, June had been out of town anyway, and while Peter knew she’d kind of agreed to share baby-sittting duties for Neal, this was a bit much.
It was just a bit much.
Especially because Caffrey was Caffrey no matter what age he was. Put him in his bedroom at night, he could be anywhere by morning. Tell him his bedtime was 7:30, no ifs ands or buts, and he’d find himself reading Neal a fifth bedtime story sometime around 8:15, until Elizabeth stepped in and gently shooed Peter away and got Neal to sleep.
Peter had always thought he’d be the disciplinarian.
And he wasn’t even going to talk about the absurdity of Caffrey in his marriage bed. Never. Not even if Diana followed through with her threats, because she’d found out from Elizabeth, who was complaining that Peter--Peter!--was too lenient with Neal.
But when Neal had showed up in the middle of the night, clutching his blue blanket and looking so, so scared--Peter hadn’t been able to send him back to his room, even if he had carried Neal back to it in the morning so that they could both spend a good 15 minutes checking every nook and cranny for monsters.
Still, dutifully, when Neal showed no signs of becoming big again, Peter had enrolled him in school. But he’d been grumpy all day when September 6 rolled around--Neal had a late November birthdate, and he was small for his age besides being almost a full year younger than some of the other kids, and sure, he’d seemed fine when Peter had left him at the school, but then he’d looked up and his eyes--
The first time Peter had met Neal at prison, when he’d begged Peter to let him out with an anklet, Neal had had, at the very end, this -- this look in his eyes. Lost, young, scared--and so, so alone.
The look in Neal’s eyes, as he stood in the entranceway to the classroom, was lost, young, scared and so, so alone.
It had taken Peter almost super-human effort to turn around and walk away under the steely eyed glare of the too-young teacher who had stated very firmly, “Say ‘good-bye’ to Neal, Mr. Burke,” putting an arm around the still-smiling little Neal.
Peter did not, as he wanted to, snatch Neal up and take him home and hold him until nothing bad could happen to him.
As he had the first time, he’d walked away.
**********************************
Elizabeth had been gone for almost two full days on an out of town business trip (and what she didn’t know about what time Neal had gone to bed last night wouldn’t hurt her) when, right in the middle of an important department meeting, his mind full of his current case involving an art-smuggling ring (his favourite kind, really), his cell phone rang.
It was the school. His face fell, but he answered it. It was probably important or about crayons or something--he didn’t know, Elizabeth had been the go-to person, usually, but she’d asked Peter if he’d do it while she was away, reminding him that their before-and-after school nanny was available during the day in a pinch. If it was a matter of Neal forgetting lunch or something, Peter told himself, the nanny could be dispatched--for a small fortune.
Even at around two feet tall Neal was irritatingly expensive.
“Mr. Burke?” asked the too young, too chipper voice. Peter still had a hard time trusting his Neal to an overly cheerful practically-a-teenager. He wondered how she managed him, with all his wily ways (even at the age of four almost five) but there had been, oddly, no complaints. The school loved Neal, with his bright mind and his willing to please attitude.
Peter was just waiting for the day when he got called about the fee for homework scam Neal was sure to start. Just waiting.
“What did Neal do now?” he asked, sighing.
“I’m sorry?” she asked, a hint of censure in her tone.
“Nothing, I’m sorry. Is everything okay?”
“Neal threw up after morning recess today. We called an early nap time, and he’s lying down, but we’d like for you to come and pick him up. He feels warm, and tried to trade away his cookies for Jessica’s pencil crayons, which is unlike him.”
Peter could have debated that, but he was too busy frantically striding to the elevator. “I’m on my way”.
************************
When he arrived, Neal looked sick. His face was flushed, he looked pale and miserable, but he still--being Neal--tried to hide it.
“Peter!” he said, sitting up and smiling when Neal walked into the class of nappers. Watching them, Peter wished for a fleeting second that he got nap time.
“Hey buddy,” said Peter, putting a hand over his lips for quiet and bending down to pick him up. He was too warm, he noticed immediately. Neal shouldn’t be this warm. Maybe this was his fault for letting Neal stay up too late. Elizabeth was going to be so mad--
The teacher approached them, signalling to the other non-napping kids to stay where they were. “Mr. Burke, why don’t you take Neal outside while I get his things.” It wasn’t a suggestion.
Peter nodded, taking Neal outside into the hall. “I don’t want to go home,” said Neal in a small voice into Peter’s neck when they were outside the classroom door. Not knowing how to respond, Peter just hugged him tightly. Peter set him down just as the teacher closed the door behind them.
“I’m sorry, Neal, but when you’re not feeling well, you need to go home and rest. You can come back tomorrow when you’re feeling better,” said Ms. Smith firmly.
“But I’m going to miss art class! Please, Miss Smith, I know I throwed up, but I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean to! Please. I won’t do it again. I’ll be really good--” His lip quivered, and he looked like he was going to cry. Peter looked helplessly at the teacher, who shrugged. Clearly, this was his problem.
“Hey, hey Neal, look at me,” said Peter. “No one is mad at you for being sick, okay? It’s not your fault. I’m going to take you home, and if you’re feeling better later, you can have juice and cookies.”
“I don’t want juice and cookies. I don’t want to go. Please, Peter! It’s not fair--” Neal wailed, his voice rising.
The teacher bent down. “Neal’s been looking forward to using the paints all week, and I know it’s not fair, Neal. But we agreed that you need to go with your dad, remember? I’ll keep the paints for you for next week.”
Neal nodded, but he looked so dejected--and so sick--that Peter’s heart almost broke. “Hear that, kiddo? The paints will still be there when you get back.”
“But--” began Neal.
Peter raised a finger.
“I--” started Neal again.
Peter raised an eyebrow.
Neal subsided, looking abjectly and exaggeratedly woebegone.
Peter had tried to be immune to the adult Caffrey’s sulking, with limited success. With the four year old version, even knowing he was being played, Peter had no chance. Hardening his heart, and under Miss Smith’s all too knowing gaze, Peter bent down and swung Neal up in his arms again, smoothing back the damp curls. Neal breath was quick and laboured and hot against Peter’s neck. “Come on, buddy. We better get going.”
*******************************
Neal fell asleep in his car seat on the way back, while Peter worried. What was wrong with him? Did he need a doctor? Should he call El? He didn’t--he didn’t know what to do.
Neal woke up crying somewhere just over the Brooklyn Bridge, and then proceeded to throw up all over himself, still crying incoherently about being sorry and not meaning to and please could he just use the paints. Peter debated pulling over to calm him down, because calling from the front seat was not working, but in the end, decided just getting home would be good enough so he could get Neal changed--the teacher had already used his extra set of clothes when he threw up the first time, and he didn’t have any other clothes with him. Neal was still crying hysterically in the back, saying he was sorry over and over--and not for the first time since knowing Neal did Peter wonder about Neal’s childhood. But it was more recently that little signs and signals had made Peter really worry that far from the scamp that Peter had assumed Neal had been, Neal was actually a good kid.
That he’d learned to be a really, really good kid.
At home, Neal was clingy and miserable. He begged for something to drink, but threw up the half glass of water Peter let him have along with the children’s tylenol. Peter was increasingly worried, but a call to the paediatrician’s office told him to keep Neal home unless his fever got worse or to bring him in tomorrow if he wasn’t better. They suggested giving him a bath, making sure he had enough to drink, and letting him rest.
The next few hours were horrible. Peter undressed Neal to give him a bath, but Neal was cold and shivering and while he normally loved bath time, he didn’t like the tepid water and cried and resisted through most of the process. Eventually, Peter dried him off and dressed him in his train pyjamas and lay down with Neal on the couch, where Neal--finally--proceeded to fall asleep on his chest.
For two hours.
Less than another hour later, having changed his shirt and cleaned Neal up yet again, Peter was on his way to the paediatrician’s office, along with the fake ID Mozzie had given him for Neal. Appointment or no, he was going to make sure Dr. Cho saw him (thank God the clinic was open late), and he was once again (for the sixth time) talking himself out of calling Elizabeth. He couldn’t let her know he couldn’t handle things, but she’d want to know if Neal was sick, right?
In the end, at the end of his rope, he did the next best thing: He called Diana from the waiting room. A two minute call with Christie later, he was assured he had done the right thing--Neal likely had pneumonia, but it was completely treatable with antibiotics at home, Christie assured him, and very common. Neal was going to be just fine.
An eighty-five minute wait with a bored and cranky Neal later, and after soothing and talking Neal through a shot, Neal was once again sleeping in the car seat and Peter was on his way home.
He was thoroughly exhausted.
It wasn’t even six p.m.
He gave in and called Elizabeth. He really needed to hear her voice.
*****************************
“Honey, are you sure you don’t want me to come home?” Elizabeth, on the webcam, looked and sounded worried.
“It’s fine, sweetie. I’ve got Neal on antibiotics, he took the needle like a champ--didn’t you buddy--and we’re watching Thomas the Tank on tv. We’re fine. Neal, you want to talk to Elizabeth?” Peter paused the DVD, lifting Neal up and depositing him on his lap so he could see the laptop.
“Hi ‘Lizbeth,” said Neal through the screen. “Peter let me have ice cream!”
“Did he now,” said Elizabeth with a smile. “Before dinner, even!”
“Uh huh. Peter said if I didn’t throw up, and I ate some soup, I could have more!”
“Really.”
“Yup. He said I could have alf-bet soup! And because I was good at the doctor, he promised me my own paints. The big set!”
“That sounds great, sweetheart. I hope you feel better. I love you.” Peter raised an eyebrow. “Can you put Peter back on the phone?”
“Bye, ‘Lizbeth!” said Neal happily, allowing Peter to put him back down.
“I’ll call you later,” said Peter, “Don’t worry; we’ll be fine. He’s a lot better now that he’s had something to eat. I love you honey.”
“I love you,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll see you both soon.”
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Neal ate little of the promised alphabet soup, bargaining instead for more ice cream--and while Peter tried to be stern, he didn’t force this tiny Neal, instead allowing him to squirm out of the booster seat he’d borrowed from Rachel in Cyber Crime (with a trumped up story about a visiting nephew) and letting him watch TV. But when Peter offered Neal the hard-won ice cream a scant half hour later, Neal squirmed and talked around it, essentially refusing to eat it. Even at age four, Peter was realizing, Neal rarely gave a straight answer about anything incriminating. But the refusal was enough of a flashing neon sign and sure enough, picking the boy up and placing a hand over his forehead confirmed it--Neal’s fever, which had come down earlier, was rising again. Peter settled Neal on the couch, forcing him to take some children’s Tylenol against Neal’s protest and ignoring all of Neal’s attempts at negotiations. Peter was just grateful that the children’s version was a liquid suspension--he could make a face all he wanted, but once in his mouth, Neal had no option but to swallow. Peter had no doubt that even at the age of four, Neal would have had no problem palming or cheeking any pills he didn’t want.
At least the nausea seemed to have abated somewhat, even if Neal still had no appetite. Within a half hour of Peter starting to read him a story, with frequent interruptions by Neal asking ridiculous questions about why everything happened and why why why, the questions had petered out and Neal had fallen asleep on page three beside Peter, with his head on Peter’s lap. While he looked uncomfortable, attempts to shift him failed, so after a while, Peter just left him as he was. Neal was frowning in his sleep, his little forehead wrinkled, and Peter couldn’t resist--he ruffled his hair and patted his head until Neal seemed to relax a little.
Which made Peter relax, reaching over to the side table, and flipping on the TV, congratulating himself for having the foresight to put Neal to bed in the living room. Without Elizabeth around, it was just easier.
He got a full half hour of comfortable game watching until Neal started screaming.
***************************
Neal was screaming and crying inconsolably, eyes wide and repeating, "I didn't do it, I didn't do it please, tell her I didn't do it!” and clinging to Peter, who took a few moments to react, startled by the sudden change in the sleeping child. Game forgotten, Peter scooped Neal up and held him close, telling him it was okay, it was just a dream, trying to get him to calm down. With all the commotion, Satchmo, who had been napping on his cushion rushed into the room and started barking, and for a moment, everything was chaos.
It seemed like a long time before Neal stopped screaming and Satchmo stopped barking, a long time before Neal’s sobs died down to soft sniffles and tired protests, a long time before he quieted against Peter’s chest, mostly due to exhaustion than anything else. Peter felt wholly inadequate. He wished, desperately, that El was home.
Peter was patting Neal’s back, letting the sniffles die down, and hoping Neal would fall back asleep, when Neal lifted his head off of Peter’s chest, and looked at him with all the seriousness a four year old con artist could muster. “I didn't do it”, insisted Neal, blue eyes swimming in tears. “He told me I did, and he told mommy I did, but I didn’t--”
“I know you didn't, buddy,” Peter said soothingly, “it's okay.” He wondered what the hell the four year old could have thought he did.
“He's gonna say I did, and so she always thinks I did, even when he did it--” Neal was starting to get himself worked up again, and Peter tried to shush him.
And then Neal said something that chilled him to the bone.
“He told her,” hiccuped Neal, “he told her that I stole it, and she believed him and not me, and he told her I hurt myself falling off the stool when I was just trying to stop him--”
“Neal,” said Peter, trying to keep the horror out of his voice, “what did he do to you?”
“He lied to her--” began Neal indignantly.
“I know that, kiddo--but did someone hurt you?” Peter tried to keep his voice neutral, because Neal was clearly more obsessed with the fact that whoever it was had lied--and wasn’t that ironic--but Peter could not believe what he was hearing. What, if he were honest with himself, he ought not to be hearing, but he couldn’t help himself.
“He hit me on the head, but I didn’t fall over, and then I--”
“Who hit you, Neal?” Peter was seeing red. He tried to breathe, tried to calm himself down, reminding himself that this was all in the past--
“You’re hurting me, Peter--” Neal began to squirm, as Peter had unconsciously tightened his hold, and Peter relaxed his arms, running a large palm over Neal’s damp curls. His fever must be coming down.
“Who hit you, Neal?” repeated Peter, voice calm, getting a grip on himself.
“Uncle Craig. It didn’t really hurt, though, usually. And he’s not really my uncle, anyway.”
Peter’s voice caught on the casual ‘usually’ and he had to take a moment before he could find any words. “Yeah? Who is he, then?” asked Peter, setting Neal down beside him, deciding that he should probably give the boy more Tylenol, maybe change his damp pyjamas and get him to the bathroom before he went back to bed. “Come on, kiddo, let’s go pee and then I’ll give you some juice. Does juice sound good?”
“Yeah. Yeah, Peter.” Neal rubbed his eyes and yawned, looking sleepy, his curls going every which way. Peter picked him up and carried him up the stairs.
“So, who’s Uncle Craig?” asked Peter as they finished up in the bathroom and he began changing Neal.
“He’s my mommy’s friend. She said I should call him Uncle. Peter? I don’t like him. He is mean to mommy, and to me, and he takes her stuff. He’s got a gun, and he told me once that if I didn’t do what he said, he’d shoot mommy. Mommy had to call the police. Mommy told me that my daddy--my real daddy--is a police officer. The police officer that came was a girl, though.” Neal said it like he was disappointed.
“Was she, now? Like Diana? Arms up, Neal.”
“Yeah, she was really nice to me. Peter, can I have more ice cream?”
“Tell you what. Let’s go down to the kitchen, and I’ll get you some juice, and then we can see about the ice cream. You’re feeling better, huh?”
“Yeah. Do you think I can go to school tomorrow?”
“We’ll see,” said Peter automatically, wincing as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Neal, catching on, frowned.
“Please, Peter, I’ll be really really good, I promise--”
“Remember when I told you being sick isn’t your fault, buddy? You’ve been really good, I know you have. But I think you should stay home another day, so you get better. But I’ll tell you what, if you’re feeling better tomorrow, I’ll take you to the art store and get your paints before Elizabeth gets home, how’s that?” Peter filled Neal’s red sippy cup with apple juice before giving it to Neal. The cup was covered with train decals--Neal was going through a train phase.
Neal sipped at his juice and considered that. “Will you stay home with me too?” He looked up at Peter, big blue eyes beseeching. Peter hesitated and thought of all the work to be done at the office, the case he was in the middle of before he got called away to the school, and sighed. Maybe he could do some work from home while Neal was sleeping. Noticing his hesitation, Neal tried to sweeten the deal with four year old logic. “You don’t even have to get me the paints if you stay home with me, okay? I know they are expensive. Mommy said.”
“No deal, buddy,” said Peter, looking into Neal's blue eyes and realizing why no one could ever say 'no' to the little monster, ever, “you promised me a picture, and I’m going to hold you to it. One day, you’re going to be a really, really famous artist and I want a whole bunch of your paintings, okay?”
“That’s okay,” said Neal sadly. “I guess work’s more important.”
“More important than making sure you paint the picture you promised me? I don’t think so. In fact, you’d better make me two--I’m going to keep one, and then I’ll sell one and it will make me rich. I’m sorry, kiddo, you’re stuck with me until I get my paintings.” Thank God it was Friday tomorrow, and then he could stay home guilt-free.
“You’re silly,” giggled Neal, as Peter ruffled his hair, and his smile was like a sunbeam. No file could compete with it, and any doubts Peter had about taking another day faded away under the power of that smile. Peter couldn’t help but grin back at Neal. Then Neal frowned with sudden four year old seriousness. “You won’t get into trouble if you stay? Are you sure?” The blue eyes were dark with worry.
Peter fought a smile. “Don’t you worry, kiddo. I’ll explain it to them, and they’ll understand and won’t mind. All right? Now, Satchmo needs to be let out, and you need to go back to bed, okay? You feel like a little more soup, maybe?” The medication was clearly working--it had been only a few hours, but much to Peter’s relief, it seemed like the antibiotics or the Tylenol, or both, were kicking in.
“Can I have ice cream?” asked Neal hopefully, his expression connivingly innocent. “You said I could, before, remember?”
Peter looked at him, trying to keep his expression stern. “If you have a little soup, and take your medicine, you can have some ice cream. Deal?”
Neal frowned in concentration. Peter fought a smile. “Deal,” he said earnestly, sticking his tiny hand out. Peter folded it into his own, shaking firmly.
*************************
As they went up the stairs, a half hour later, Satchmo having been let out into the yard and Neal having had a whole three spoons of soup, another dose of Tylenol and a small bowl of ice cream, Peter decided to count it as a win and what El didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Neal, his arms around Peter’s neck, his weight warm and heavy and trusting, asked sleepily, “Peter?”
“Yeah Neal?”
“You said, when I was big, that we were friends?” Neal sounded serious, but like he was trying not to be. Peter fought a grin--apparently, Neal’s con-artist ways had started really young. He was already honing his technique.
“Yeah, Neal, I did. And we are.” Peter deliberately didn’t think about the now over-sized anklet, the chase, the complicated relationship between fed and con.
Neal sounded like he was puzzling something out. “And that's why I can stay with you, cuz we're friends?”
“Yes. Because we’re friends, and I love you.” The words were out of Peter’s mouth before he could think about them, but they were true. He couldn’t imagine not being around to care for Neal.
“And I’m small cuz I touched something bad?” Neal looked worried, and his voice held such heartbreaking trust that Peter struggled, for a moment, with how to answer.
“You touched something you weren’t supposed to, Neal. I told you not to, but sometimes you don’t listen to me. That’s why it’s very important to always listen when I tell you to do something, because I try to tell you things for your own good.” The recurrent theme of this lecture was not lost on Peter. At least, from what he’d seen so far, he had a pretty good shot at getting the four year old version of Caffrey to comply.
“You said it was c-c-” Neal stumbled over the word.
“It was a little statue, and yes, there was a saying that it was cursed. That means someone put a bad spell on it. Mr. Mozzie--you remember him--he’s your friend, too, and he’s trying to find out where it came from and who put the spell on it, and if they can take it back.”
“Peter?”
“Yeah Neal,” said Peter, as he put the sleepy kid into his bed, put his teddy bear beside him, and tucked him in.
“Can I stay with you when I become big?”
Peter sat on the side of the bed. “No, Neal, you have your own house. When you become big again, you’ll go back there.”
“If I’m really, really good, and always listen to you from now on, can I stay with you? Please?” Peter swallowed against the lump in his throat.
“Neal--listen, when you’re grown up, you probably won’t want to stay here,” or listen to anything I say, thought Peter, “but okay. You can if you want. Now, no more talking. You need to go to sleep. It’s way after your bedtime, Neal, and you won’t get better if you don’t sleep.”
“Peter?”
“Yeah, Neal. I’m serious about the no more talking thing, okay? You’re keeping Mr. Whiskers awake. We can talk in the morning.”
But like adult Caffrey, mini-Caffrey was nothing if not persistent. “I think I’m kind of lucky, even though you said it was a bad spell. I am lucky I got to come and live with you, even if I wish mommy would come here too.” There was such sadness in the little voice, that Peter crossed over the room, coming back to the bed, and leaning over to kiss Neal on the forehead.
“She can’t, buddy. Remember I told you? She lives really, really far away now, and doesn’t know you became small. If she did, she’d run here as fast as she could for you.”
Neal was silent for a minute, and Peter got up to turn off the light. Before he did, Neal blinked at him again, and said, “Peter? My daddy doesn’t ever come to visit me. I don’t think he lives that far away.”
“Oh.” Peter had nothing to say about that. He knew very little about Caffrey’s father, and he doubted, from the tidbits he had managed to pry out of Neal, that Neal knew much, either. He wasn’t sure if that was because Neal had never tried to find out because he didn’t care, or because Neal had never wanted to find out because he was afraid of what he’d find. Peter had no doubt that Neal could find the information easily enough, if he ever wanted.
“And I don’t like Uncle Craig.” Neal was saying, softly.
“I know, Neal,” said Peter. “I’m sorry he was mean to you. You know that it wasn’t your fault, right? It was his fault.”
“I guess,” said Neal.
“No, Neal,” said Peter, sitting back down on the side of the bed, looking into those big, trustingly innocent eyes. “It’s really important you listen to me about this, okay? It was wrong of him, and it wasn’t your fault. Got it?”
Neal nodded, but looked unconvinced.
“Peter?” asked Neal, after a moment.
“Can I call you Daddy? Just for a little while.”
Peter tried to consider the right thing to say, struggled to figure out what the right way was to respond. He had to remember, forced himself to remember, that this situation was temporary--Haversham would find a solution, and everything would go back to the way it was. Until then--
“Neal,” said Peter carefully, “you know I’m not your father, right? You have your own daddy.”
“I know.”
“How come you want to call me daddy, then?”
“I dunno. I just--I just wanted to pretend. For a little while. Cuz if you were my daddy, you’d love me, right?”
For a moment, Peter had to fight against the urge to cry--not only for Neal’s loss, but for his own, for everyone's loss. If Caffrey had--if Caffrey had had different opportunities, different choices, a different life--
If only.
What could he say? “Okay, sure, I’d like that, sport. And yeah, you’re my friend, and even as my friend, Neal, you have to know that I love you. Okay? Now off to sleep with you.”
“Forever and ever?”
“Forever and ever, Neal.”
“Thanks, Peter,” said Neal, and for a moment, Neal’s voice sounded older, mature, exhausted and world-weary. Peter blinked, but Neal was still small, still a child and not the adult Caffrey he knew. As he closed the door, he heard Neal whisper to Mr. Whiskers, “I wish he was my daddy,” and Peter closed his eyes against a wave of grief, against all the impossible things in life that should have been but never were.
With all his connections to superstition and nonsense, Mozzie must have figured it out by now, he thought. He’d call him in the morning.
************************************
End, although this was a little rushed and so I might fiddle with it later before I post it elsewhere--I’m going to NYC for the weekend, and wanted to get this out before I left and before the fest ends. Credit for the inspiration for the ending goes to rabidchild, although the excessive amount of treacly sap is my fault, sorry. Comments are very much appreciated :-) As always, if you got this far, thanks very much for reading.
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, or this universe. I am writing this for my own self-indulgent fun, and because, like Neal, I clearly covet other people's things, even if they will never be my own.
A little thanks to lauracollared, who gave me the nudge to fix the little errors that were bugging me--except for the timeline, which you just have to go with.
Comments, positive or negative, are treasured. Thanks for reading.
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It had been almost six months ago that Neal had been--reduced? Made young? De-aged? Youthified? Mozzie kept coming up with new words, but the fact remained--Neal had been shrunk down to a pint-sized, four year old version of himself. With no signs or way to make him his own annoying, charismatic, adult self again. Neal himself was no help--he had no memory or knowledge that his four year old self did not possess. He’d spent the first week in Peter’s guest room (crying heartbreakingly for his mommy, for the most part), because Peter couldn’t exactly saddle June with--well, June had been out of town anyway, and while Peter knew she’d kind of agreed to share baby-sittting duties for Neal, this was a bit much.
It was just a bit much.
Especially because Caffrey was Caffrey no matter what age he was. Put him in his bedroom at night, he could be anywhere by morning. Tell him his bedtime was 7:30, no ifs ands or buts, and he’d find himself reading Neal a fifth bedtime story sometime around 8:15, until Elizabeth stepped in and gently shooed Peter away and got Neal to sleep.
Peter had always thought he’d be the disciplinarian.
And he wasn’t even going to talk about the absurdity of Caffrey in his marriage bed. Never. Not even if Diana followed through with her threats, because she’d found out from Elizabeth, who was complaining that Peter--Peter!--was too lenient with Neal.
But when Neal had showed up in the middle of the night, clutching his blue blanket and looking so, so scared--Peter hadn’t been able to send him back to his room, even if he had carried Neal back to it in the morning so that they could both spend a good 15 minutes checking every nook and cranny for monsters.
Still, dutifully, when Neal showed no signs of becoming big again, Peter had enrolled him in school. But he’d been grumpy all day when September 6 rolled around--Neal had a late November birthdate, and he was small for his age besides being almost a full year younger than some of the other kids, and sure, he’d seemed fine when Peter had left him at the school, but then he’d looked up and his eyes--
The first time Peter had met Neal at prison, when he’d begged Peter to let him out with an anklet, Neal had had, at the very end, this -- this look in his eyes. Lost, young, scared--and so, so alone.
The look in Neal’s eyes, as he stood in the entranceway to the classroom, was lost, young, scared and so, so alone.
It had taken Peter almost super-human effort to turn around and walk away under the steely eyed glare of the too-young teacher who had stated very firmly, “Say ‘good-bye’ to Neal, Mr. Burke,” putting an arm around the still-smiling little Neal.
Peter did not, as he wanted to, snatch Neal up and take him home and hold him until nothing bad could happen to him.
As he had the first time, he’d walked away.
**********************************
Elizabeth had been gone for almost two full days on an out of town business trip (and what she didn’t know about what time Neal had gone to bed last night wouldn’t hurt her) when, right in the middle of an important department meeting, his mind full of his current case involving an art-smuggling ring (his favourite kind, really), his cell phone rang.
It was the school. His face fell, but he answered it. It was probably important or about crayons or something--he didn’t know, Elizabeth had been the go-to person, usually, but she’d asked Peter if he’d do it while she was away, reminding him that their before-and-after school nanny was available during the day in a pinch. If it was a matter of Neal forgetting lunch or something, Peter told himself, the nanny could be dispatched--for a small fortune.
Even at around two feet tall Neal was irritatingly expensive.
“Mr. Burke?” asked the too young, too chipper voice. Peter still had a hard time trusting his Neal to an overly cheerful practically-a-teenager. He wondered how she managed him, with all his wily ways (even at the age of four almost five) but there had been, oddly, no complaints. The school loved Neal, with his bright mind and his willing to please attitude.
Peter was just waiting for the day when he got called about the fee for homework scam Neal was sure to start. Just waiting.
“What did Neal do now?” he asked, sighing.
“I’m sorry?” she asked, a hint of censure in her tone.
“Nothing, I’m sorry. Is everything okay?”
“Neal threw up after morning recess today. We called an early nap time, and he’s lying down, but we’d like for you to come and pick him up. He feels warm, and tried to trade away his cookies for Jessica’s pencil crayons, which is unlike him.”
Peter could have debated that, but he was too busy frantically striding to the elevator. “I’m on my way”.
************************
When he arrived, Neal looked sick. His face was flushed, he looked pale and miserable, but he still--being Neal--tried to hide it.
“Peter!” he said, sitting up and smiling when Neal walked into the class of nappers. Watching them, Peter wished for a fleeting second that he got nap time.
“Hey buddy,” said Peter, putting a hand over his lips for quiet and bending down to pick him up. He was too warm, he noticed immediately. Neal shouldn’t be this warm. Maybe this was his fault for letting Neal stay up too late. Elizabeth was going to be so mad--
The teacher approached them, signalling to the other non-napping kids to stay where they were. “Mr. Burke, why don’t you take Neal outside while I get his things.” It wasn’t a suggestion.
Peter nodded, taking Neal outside into the hall. “I don’t want to go home,” said Neal in a small voice into Peter’s neck when they were outside the classroom door. Not knowing how to respond, Peter just hugged him tightly. Peter set him down just as the teacher closed the door behind them.
“I’m sorry, Neal, but when you’re not feeling well, you need to go home and rest. You can come back tomorrow when you’re feeling better,” said Ms. Smith firmly.
“But I’m going to miss art class! Please, Miss Smith, I know I throwed up, but I’m very sorry, I didn’t mean to! Please. I won’t do it again. I’ll be really good--” His lip quivered, and he looked like he was going to cry. Peter looked helplessly at the teacher, who shrugged. Clearly, this was his problem.
“Hey, hey Neal, look at me,” said Peter. “No one is mad at you for being sick, okay? It’s not your fault. I’m going to take you home, and if you’re feeling better later, you can have juice and cookies.”
“I don’t want juice and cookies. I don’t want to go. Please, Peter! It’s not fair--” Neal wailed, his voice rising.
The teacher bent down. “Neal’s been looking forward to using the paints all week, and I know it’s not fair, Neal. But we agreed that you need to go with your dad, remember? I’ll keep the paints for you for next week.”
Neal nodded, but he looked so dejected--and so sick--that Peter’s heart almost broke. “Hear that, kiddo? The paints will still be there when you get back.”
“But--” began Neal.
Peter raised a finger.
“I--” started Neal again.
Peter raised an eyebrow.
Neal subsided, looking abjectly and exaggeratedly woebegone.
Peter had tried to be immune to the adult Caffrey’s sulking, with limited success. With the four year old version, even knowing he was being played, Peter had no chance. Hardening his heart, and under Miss Smith’s all too knowing gaze, Peter bent down and swung Neal up in his arms again, smoothing back the damp curls. Neal breath was quick and laboured and hot against Peter’s neck. “Come on, buddy. We better get going.”
*******************************
Neal fell asleep in his car seat on the way back, while Peter worried. What was wrong with him? Did he need a doctor? Should he call El? He didn’t--he didn’t know what to do.
Neal woke up crying somewhere just over the Brooklyn Bridge, and then proceeded to throw up all over himself, still crying incoherently about being sorry and not meaning to and please could he just use the paints. Peter debated pulling over to calm him down, because calling from the front seat was not working, but in the end, decided just getting home would be good enough so he could get Neal changed--the teacher had already used his extra set of clothes when he threw up the first time, and he didn’t have any other clothes with him. Neal was still crying hysterically in the back, saying he was sorry over and over--and not for the first time since knowing Neal did Peter wonder about Neal’s childhood. But it was more recently that little signs and signals had made Peter really worry that far from the scamp that Peter had assumed Neal had been, Neal was actually a good kid.
That he’d learned to be a really, really good kid.
At home, Neal was clingy and miserable. He begged for something to drink, but threw up the half glass of water Peter let him have along with the children’s tylenol. Peter was increasingly worried, but a call to the paediatrician’s office told him to keep Neal home unless his fever got worse or to bring him in tomorrow if he wasn’t better. They suggested giving him a bath, making sure he had enough to drink, and letting him rest.
The next few hours were horrible. Peter undressed Neal to give him a bath, but Neal was cold and shivering and while he normally loved bath time, he didn’t like the tepid water and cried and resisted through most of the process. Eventually, Peter dried him off and dressed him in his train pyjamas and lay down with Neal on the couch, where Neal--finally--proceeded to fall asleep on his chest.
For two hours.
Less than another hour later, having changed his shirt and cleaned Neal up yet again, Peter was on his way to the paediatrician’s office, along with the fake ID Mozzie had given him for Neal. Appointment or no, he was going to make sure Dr. Cho saw him (thank God the clinic was open late), and he was once again (for the sixth time) talking himself out of calling Elizabeth. He couldn’t let her know he couldn’t handle things, but she’d want to know if Neal was sick, right?
In the end, at the end of his rope, he did the next best thing: He called Diana from the waiting room. A two minute call with Christie later, he was assured he had done the right thing--Neal likely had pneumonia, but it was completely treatable with antibiotics at home, Christie assured him, and very common. Neal was going to be just fine.
An eighty-five minute wait with a bored and cranky Neal later, and after soothing and talking Neal through a shot, Neal was once again sleeping in the car seat and Peter was on his way home.
He was thoroughly exhausted.
It wasn’t even six p.m.
He gave in and called Elizabeth. He really needed to hear her voice.
*****************************
“Honey, are you sure you don’t want me to come home?” Elizabeth, on the webcam, looked and sounded worried.
“It’s fine, sweetie. I’ve got Neal on antibiotics, he took the needle like a champ--didn’t you buddy--and we’re watching Thomas the Tank on tv. We’re fine. Neal, you want to talk to Elizabeth?” Peter paused the DVD, lifting Neal up and depositing him on his lap so he could see the laptop.
“Hi ‘Lizbeth,” said Neal through the screen. “Peter let me have ice cream!”
“Did he now,” said Elizabeth with a smile. “Before dinner, even!”
“Uh huh. Peter said if I didn’t throw up, and I ate some soup, I could have more!”
“Really.”
“Yup. He said I could have alf-bet soup! And because I was good at the doctor, he promised me my own paints. The big set!”
“That sounds great, sweetheart. I hope you feel better. I love you.” Peter raised an eyebrow. “Can you put Peter back on the phone?”
“Bye, ‘Lizbeth!” said Neal happily, allowing Peter to put him back down.
“I’ll call you later,” said Peter, “Don’t worry; we’ll be fine. He’s a lot better now that he’s had something to eat. I love you honey.”
“I love you,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll see you both soon.”
*************************
Neal ate little of the promised alphabet soup, bargaining instead for more ice cream--and while Peter tried to be stern, he didn’t force this tiny Neal, instead allowing him to squirm out of the booster seat he’d borrowed from Rachel in Cyber Crime (with a trumped up story about a visiting nephew) and letting him watch TV. But when Peter offered Neal the hard-won ice cream a scant half hour later, Neal squirmed and talked around it, essentially refusing to eat it. Even at age four, Peter was realizing, Neal rarely gave a straight answer about anything incriminating. But the refusal was enough of a flashing neon sign and sure enough, picking the boy up and placing a hand over his forehead confirmed it--Neal’s fever, which had come down earlier, was rising again. Peter settled Neal on the couch, forcing him to take some children’s Tylenol against Neal’s protest and ignoring all of Neal’s attempts at negotiations. Peter was just grateful that the children’s version was a liquid suspension--he could make a face all he wanted, but once in his mouth, Neal had no option but to swallow. Peter had no doubt that even at the age of four, Neal would have had no problem palming or cheeking any pills he didn’t want.
At least the nausea seemed to have abated somewhat, even if Neal still had no appetite. Within a half hour of Peter starting to read him a story, with frequent interruptions by Neal asking ridiculous questions about why everything happened and why why why, the questions had petered out and Neal had fallen asleep on page three beside Peter, with his head on Peter’s lap. While he looked uncomfortable, attempts to shift him failed, so after a while, Peter just left him as he was. Neal was frowning in his sleep, his little forehead wrinkled, and Peter couldn’t resist--he ruffled his hair and patted his head until Neal seemed to relax a little.
Which made Peter relax, reaching over to the side table, and flipping on the TV, congratulating himself for having the foresight to put Neal to bed in the living room. Without Elizabeth around, it was just easier.
He got a full half hour of comfortable game watching until Neal started screaming.
***************************
Neal was screaming and crying inconsolably, eyes wide and repeating, "I didn't do it, I didn't do it please, tell her I didn't do it!” and clinging to Peter, who took a few moments to react, startled by the sudden change in the sleeping child. Game forgotten, Peter scooped Neal up and held him close, telling him it was okay, it was just a dream, trying to get him to calm down. With all the commotion, Satchmo, who had been napping on his cushion rushed into the room and started barking, and for a moment, everything was chaos.
It seemed like a long time before Neal stopped screaming and Satchmo stopped barking, a long time before Neal’s sobs died down to soft sniffles and tired protests, a long time before he quieted against Peter’s chest, mostly due to exhaustion than anything else. Peter felt wholly inadequate. He wished, desperately, that El was home.
Peter was patting Neal’s back, letting the sniffles die down, and hoping Neal would fall back asleep, when Neal lifted his head off of Peter’s chest, and looked at him with all the seriousness a four year old con artist could muster. “I didn't do it”, insisted Neal, blue eyes swimming in tears. “He told me I did, and he told mommy I did, but I didn’t--”
“I know you didn't, buddy,” Peter said soothingly, “it's okay.” He wondered what the hell the four year old could have thought he did.
“He's gonna say I did, and so she always thinks I did, even when he did it--” Neal was starting to get himself worked up again, and Peter tried to shush him.
And then Neal said something that chilled him to the bone.
“He told her,” hiccuped Neal, “he told her that I stole it, and she believed him and not me, and he told her I hurt myself falling off the stool when I was just trying to stop him--”
“Neal,” said Peter, trying to keep the horror out of his voice, “what did he do to you?”
“He lied to her--” began Neal indignantly.
“I know that, kiddo--but did someone hurt you?” Peter tried to keep his voice neutral, because Neal was clearly more obsessed with the fact that whoever it was had lied--and wasn’t that ironic--but Peter could not believe what he was hearing. What, if he were honest with himself, he ought not to be hearing, but he couldn’t help himself.
“He hit me on the head, but I didn’t fall over, and then I--”
“Who hit you, Neal?” Peter was seeing red. He tried to breathe, tried to calm himself down, reminding himself that this was all in the past--
“You’re hurting me, Peter--” Neal began to squirm, as Peter had unconsciously tightened his hold, and Peter relaxed his arms, running a large palm over Neal’s damp curls. His fever must be coming down.
“Who hit you, Neal?” repeated Peter, voice calm, getting a grip on himself.
“Uncle Craig. It didn’t really hurt, though, usually. And he’s not really my uncle, anyway.”
Peter’s voice caught on the casual ‘usually’ and he had to take a moment before he could find any words. “Yeah? Who is he, then?” asked Peter, setting Neal down beside him, deciding that he should probably give the boy more Tylenol, maybe change his damp pyjamas and get him to the bathroom before he went back to bed. “Come on, kiddo, let’s go pee and then I’ll give you some juice. Does juice sound good?”
“Yeah. Yeah, Peter.” Neal rubbed his eyes and yawned, looking sleepy, his curls going every which way. Peter picked him up and carried him up the stairs.
“So, who’s Uncle Craig?” asked Peter as they finished up in the bathroom and he began changing Neal.
“He’s my mommy’s friend. She said I should call him Uncle. Peter? I don’t like him. He is mean to mommy, and to me, and he takes her stuff. He’s got a gun, and he told me once that if I didn’t do what he said, he’d shoot mommy. Mommy had to call the police. Mommy told me that my daddy--my real daddy--is a police officer. The police officer that came was a girl, though.” Neal said it like he was disappointed.
“Was she, now? Like Diana? Arms up, Neal.”
“Yeah, she was really nice to me. Peter, can I have more ice cream?”
“Tell you what. Let’s go down to the kitchen, and I’ll get you some juice, and then we can see about the ice cream. You’re feeling better, huh?”
“Yeah. Do you think I can go to school tomorrow?”
“We’ll see,” said Peter automatically, wincing as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Neal, catching on, frowned.
“Please, Peter, I’ll be really really good, I promise--”
“Remember when I told you being sick isn’t your fault, buddy? You’ve been really good, I know you have. But I think you should stay home another day, so you get better. But I’ll tell you what, if you’re feeling better tomorrow, I’ll take you to the art store and get your paints before Elizabeth gets home, how’s that?” Peter filled Neal’s red sippy cup with apple juice before giving it to Neal. The cup was covered with train decals--Neal was going through a train phase.
Neal sipped at his juice and considered that. “Will you stay home with me too?” He looked up at Peter, big blue eyes beseeching. Peter hesitated and thought of all the work to be done at the office, the case he was in the middle of before he got called away to the school, and sighed. Maybe he could do some work from home while Neal was sleeping. Noticing his hesitation, Neal tried to sweeten the deal with four year old logic. “You don’t even have to get me the paints if you stay home with me, okay? I know they are expensive. Mommy said.”
“No deal, buddy,” said Peter, looking into Neal's blue eyes and realizing why no one could ever say 'no' to the little monster, ever, “you promised me a picture, and I’m going to hold you to it. One day, you’re going to be a really, really famous artist and I want a whole bunch of your paintings, okay?”
“That’s okay,” said Neal sadly. “I guess work’s more important.”
“More important than making sure you paint the picture you promised me? I don’t think so. In fact, you’d better make me two--I’m going to keep one, and then I’ll sell one and it will make me rich. I’m sorry, kiddo, you’re stuck with me until I get my paintings.” Thank God it was Friday tomorrow, and then he could stay home guilt-free.
“You’re silly,” giggled Neal, as Peter ruffled his hair, and his smile was like a sunbeam. No file could compete with it, and any doubts Peter had about taking another day faded away under the power of that smile. Peter couldn’t help but grin back at Neal. Then Neal frowned with sudden four year old seriousness. “You won’t get into trouble if you stay? Are you sure?” The blue eyes were dark with worry.
Peter fought a smile. “Don’t you worry, kiddo. I’ll explain it to them, and they’ll understand and won’t mind. All right? Now, Satchmo needs to be let out, and you need to go back to bed, okay? You feel like a little more soup, maybe?” The medication was clearly working--it had been only a few hours, but much to Peter’s relief, it seemed like the antibiotics or the Tylenol, or both, were kicking in.
“Can I have ice cream?” asked Neal hopefully, his expression connivingly innocent. “You said I could, before, remember?”
Peter looked at him, trying to keep his expression stern. “If you have a little soup, and take your medicine, you can have some ice cream. Deal?”
Neal frowned in concentration. Peter fought a smile. “Deal,” he said earnestly, sticking his tiny hand out. Peter folded it into his own, shaking firmly.
*************************
As they went up the stairs, a half hour later, Satchmo having been let out into the yard and Neal having had a whole three spoons of soup, another dose of Tylenol and a small bowl of ice cream, Peter decided to count it as a win and what El didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Neal, his arms around Peter’s neck, his weight warm and heavy and trusting, asked sleepily, “Peter?”
“Yeah Neal?”
“You said, when I was big, that we were friends?” Neal sounded serious, but like he was trying not to be. Peter fought a grin--apparently, Neal’s con-artist ways had started really young. He was already honing his technique.
“Yeah, Neal, I did. And we are.” Peter deliberately didn’t think about the now over-sized anklet, the chase, the complicated relationship between fed and con.
Neal sounded like he was puzzling something out. “And that's why I can stay with you, cuz we're friends?”
“Yes. Because we’re friends, and I love you.” The words were out of Peter’s mouth before he could think about them, but they were true. He couldn’t imagine not being around to care for Neal.
“And I’m small cuz I touched something bad?” Neal looked worried, and his voice held such heartbreaking trust that Peter struggled, for a moment, with how to answer.
“You touched something you weren’t supposed to, Neal. I told you not to, but sometimes you don’t listen to me. That’s why it’s very important to always listen when I tell you to do something, because I try to tell you things for your own good.” The recurrent theme of this lecture was not lost on Peter. At least, from what he’d seen so far, he had a pretty good shot at getting the four year old version of Caffrey to comply.
“You said it was c-c-” Neal stumbled over the word.
“It was a little statue, and yes, there was a saying that it was cursed. That means someone put a bad spell on it. Mr. Mozzie--you remember him--he’s your friend, too, and he’s trying to find out where it came from and who put the spell on it, and if they can take it back.”
“Peter?”
“Yeah Neal,” said Peter, as he put the sleepy kid into his bed, put his teddy bear beside him, and tucked him in.
“Can I stay with you when I become big?”
Peter sat on the side of the bed. “No, Neal, you have your own house. When you become big again, you’ll go back there.”
“If I’m really, really good, and always listen to you from now on, can I stay with you? Please?” Peter swallowed against the lump in his throat.
“Neal--listen, when you’re grown up, you probably won’t want to stay here,” or listen to anything I say, thought Peter, “but okay. You can if you want. Now, no more talking. You need to go to sleep. It’s way after your bedtime, Neal, and you won’t get better if you don’t sleep.”
“Peter?”
“Yeah, Neal. I’m serious about the no more talking thing, okay? You’re keeping Mr. Whiskers awake. We can talk in the morning.”
But like adult Caffrey, mini-Caffrey was nothing if not persistent. “I think I’m kind of lucky, even though you said it was a bad spell. I am lucky I got to come and live with you, even if I wish mommy would come here too.” There was such sadness in the little voice, that Peter crossed over the room, coming back to the bed, and leaning over to kiss Neal on the forehead.
“She can’t, buddy. Remember I told you? She lives really, really far away now, and doesn’t know you became small. If she did, she’d run here as fast as she could for you.”
Neal was silent for a minute, and Peter got up to turn off the light. Before he did, Neal blinked at him again, and said, “Peter? My daddy doesn’t ever come to visit me. I don’t think he lives that far away.”
“Oh.” Peter had nothing to say about that. He knew very little about Caffrey’s father, and he doubted, from the tidbits he had managed to pry out of Neal, that Neal knew much, either. He wasn’t sure if that was because Neal had never tried to find out because he didn’t care, or because Neal had never wanted to find out because he was afraid of what he’d find. Peter had no doubt that Neal could find the information easily enough, if he ever wanted.
“And I don’t like Uncle Craig.” Neal was saying, softly.
“I know, Neal,” said Peter. “I’m sorry he was mean to you. You know that it wasn’t your fault, right? It was his fault.”
“I guess,” said Neal.
“No, Neal,” said Peter, sitting back down on the side of the bed, looking into those big, trustingly innocent eyes. “It’s really important you listen to me about this, okay? It was wrong of him, and it wasn’t your fault. Got it?”
Neal nodded, but looked unconvinced.
“Peter?” asked Neal, after a moment.
“Can I call you Daddy? Just for a little while.”
Peter tried to consider the right thing to say, struggled to figure out what the right way was to respond. He had to remember, forced himself to remember, that this situation was temporary--Haversham would find a solution, and everything would go back to the way it was. Until then--
“Neal,” said Peter carefully, “you know I’m not your father, right? You have your own daddy.”
“I know.”
“How come you want to call me daddy, then?”
“I dunno. I just--I just wanted to pretend. For a little while. Cuz if you were my daddy, you’d love me, right?”
For a moment, Peter had to fight against the urge to cry--not only for Neal’s loss, but for his own, for everyone's loss. If Caffrey had--if Caffrey had had different opportunities, different choices, a different life--
If only.
What could he say? “Okay, sure, I’d like that, sport. And yeah, you’re my friend, and even as my friend, Neal, you have to know that I love you. Okay? Now off to sleep with you.”
“Forever and ever?”
“Forever and ever, Neal.”
“Thanks, Peter,” said Neal, and for a moment, Neal’s voice sounded older, mature, exhausted and world-weary. Peter blinked, but Neal was still small, still a child and not the adult Caffrey he knew. As he closed the door, he heard Neal whisper to Mr. Whiskers, “I wish he was my daddy,” and Peter closed his eyes against a wave of grief, against all the impossible things in life that should have been but never were.
With all his connections to superstition and nonsense, Mozzie must have figured it out by now, he thought. He’d call him in the morning.
************************************
End, although this was a little rushed and so I might fiddle with it later before I post it elsewhere--I’m going to NYC for the weekend, and wanted to get this out before I left and before the fest ends. Credit for the inspiration for the ending goes to rabidchild, although the excessive amount of treacly sap is my fault, sorry. Comments are very much appreciated :-) As always, if you got this far, thanks very much for reading.